Authors: Janice Weber
He rummaged around the bottles. “Here is some fine sleepin’ medicine. Take one teaspoon. You will go right to sleep and have
pleasant dreams. When you wake, you will be full of desire. So be careful of the person you will lie down beside.”
The stuff smelled like apricot brandy. “What happens if I drink the whole bottle?”
“You will die a happy lady.”
What a quack. I paid him and wished him great success with the local sickos. After Tougaw left, I instructed the switchboard
to put no calls through except those from Phil. Slept for hours. Midafternoon, I got the call. Phil wanted to see me in my
room. I received him in purple silk pajamas that matched my jaw. He was not in uniform and not alone. I was introduced to
a robot named Dawson with White House counsel crayoned all over him. “Drink?” I asked, raiding the minibar.
Of course not. First the detective checked the room for bugs. Then he left me alone with Dawson, who smiled with the warmth
of a Komodo dragon as he inquired how I was feeling.
“I should be able to get a violin under my chin in another week.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” He looked at me for a long moment. I think his pheromones were telling him I was hetero but
his head was telling him I must be gay. “Miss Frost,” he said finally, “you have become involved in a rather delicate situation
that could cause serious political embarrassment. You could suffer personal consequences as well. Manslaughter is a grave
offense.”
“I didn’t kill anyone. All I did was drive a drunk girl home and call 911. Don’t look at me if her lover went on a rampage.”
Dawson dropped the threats and tried the personal touch. “I’m sure you’re aware of Vicky Chickering’s relation to Mrs. Marvel.
The First Lady is incoherent with grief.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“I’m willing to drop criminal charges in exchange for your absolute silence in this matter. In short, you were never at the
Watergate this morning. You never went dancing with Rhoby Hall last night. You will never speak to the press about this incident.
Vicky Chickering stumbled and fell as she was leaving for work.” Dawson tried to look menacing: tough to pull off wearing
a powder blue bow tie. “Understood?”
“No problem.”
“Also, you will return to Berlin immediately.”
“I’ll do my best. How’s Rhoby?”
“Resting. She’s been instructed not to contact you in any way.”
“Thank you. That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
Uncertain what that meant, Dawson smiled woodenly. “So we’re agreed?”
“Absolutely.” I walked him to the door.
Dawson shook my hand and left. Things were going to get ugly for a while: Rhoby and I had cavorted in front of a lot of people
who could use twenty grand from the
National Enquirer.
I was packing my things when the phone rang.
“This is Paula Marvel. Be downstairs in five minutes.”
I hope she didn’t plan on strangling me with her own hands now that Chickering was permanently indisposed. The First Lady
sat alone in the back of the limousine that her husband usually reserved for his joyrides. She looked blotchy, bloated, and
ruthless as an executioner. Today the bows, all seven of them, were red. Brought out the veins in her eyes. I had never seen
her smoking before. A long gray cloud swirled over the ice cold cabin with every other exhalation. Skip the hi how are ya.
“Tell me how Vicky died,” Paula said. “I know it wasn’t an accident.”
I wanted this conversation as brief and clinical as she did. “Rhoby stabbed her through the back with a cello pin. That’s
about the size of a major knitting needle. They had been fighting.”
“Over what?”
“Me. Chickering thought I was going to run away with her little girl. Ludicrous, of course. I have no interest in women.”
“Then what were you doing all over town with Rhoby Hall?”
“Keeping the poor kid company. I had no idea Chickering would be waiting at home with a rolling pin. I’ve never seen such
a cat fight.”
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because I had been drugged. Paralyzed.” Paula flinched. “After she swatted Rhoby around, Chickering injected me with something
from her friend Tougaw.”
“You didn’t say anything to the police about that.”
“I can always revise my statement,” I retorted. “Now that you’re refreshing my memory.”
Paula dragged so viciously on her cigarette that it nearly burst into flame. I stared out the window, trying not to inhale,
as the limo circled the block. Paula’s eyes were moist when she finally whispered, “Did Vicky suffer long?”
“It was over in thirty seconds.” A snap of the fingers compared to the slow asphyxiation she had inflicted on Barnard. No
justice anywhere. My sympathy for Paula evaporated. “Chickering mentioned you in her dying breath.”
“My God! Tell me! What did she say?”
A blast of dirty, humid air hit my face as I cracked open the window. “‘I tried, Paula.’” I turned to the waxen First Lady.
“Now what do you think she meant by that? Tried to
kill
me? You wouldn’t want her to do that, would you?”
Paula’s eyes went cold as she searched for subtext: had I just told her everything or nothing? Unable to fathom my insouciant
stare, she said, “What a preposterous suggestion. Why would I want to kill you?” She pressed a fresh cigarette to its smoldering
predecessor. I was gratified to see that her hands shook. “Because you’re sleeping with my husband?”
“Wrong,” I sighed. “I’ve been fighting off your husband. He’s been on my tail since the night I played in the White House.”
“Fighting him off?” Paula echoed sarcastically, blowing fresh carcinogens up my nose. “You’ve been in a bathtub with him.”
Had Paula seen the video or just heard about it? I gambled that Wallace had been as efficient as she was treacherous and had
erased it immediately. “Wrong again. I was in the tub when your husband walked in naked. All he did was look at me. Big deal.
Tits and ass. I told him to beat it and he did.”
“Goddamn animal,” Paula seethed, hitting the control on her armrest. My window rolled shut again. “It’s on tape.”
“Jesus!” I tried to look horrified. “If this gets out, I’ll be the laughingstock of Europe!”
“Here’s the deal. You never see my husband again, never breathe a word of this affair, and I’ll destroy the tape.”
“There was no affair, but I’m not going to split hairs. You’ve got a deal. Better tell hubby yourself, though. He won’t take
my word for it.”
Paula exhaled blithely. I guess after Bobby’s first dozen affairs, adultery had lost its sting. “Do you think you’re playing
some kind of game, Miss Frost? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to be fooling around with the president?”
Yeah, some. I wanted out of this refrigerator. It had already gone around the block three times. “Don’t preach to me, Mrs.
Marvel. I didn’t screw your husband. But I’ll warn my friend Polly Mason. Last I heard, she and Bobby were still a unit. Go
lay your guilt trip on her.”
Paula coughed on her fumes. “You know Mason?”
“We bump into each other from time to time. I’ve been calling but can’t get an answer at her apartment here. She’s probably
taking a breather on the Riviera with her Italian count. Bobby can get pretty suffocating, you know.”
Seconds dragged into half a minute. Paula knew Barnard would never be coming back. Now that Chickering, who had done the wet
work, was gone, could the trail ever be traced back to the First Lady? That depended on how thoroughly Chickering had disposed
of the body.
Come on, Paula, crack!
I could feel her brain inching over the craggy moonscape of murder, searching for the loose rocks that could destroy her.
Finally, after crushing her last cigarette, she took a card from her purse. Her kewpie mouth curled upward daintily. “Tell
Polly to call this number when she returns, would you? I’d like to chat with her.”
So Chickering had been thorough: oh God, I’d never find Barnard’s body now. For a second I was tempted to blurt who I was,
how much I knew.… Alas, the Queen would never speak to me again. “I’ll do that, Mrs. Marvel,” I said.
Paula looked deeply and sincerely into my eyes, as if I were a television camera. “Vicky’s death has shocked me tremendously.
Please forgive me for being upset.”
I wouldn’t be forgiving you anything, honey. “I’ll be leaving Washington tomorrow. I won’t be telling your husband goodbye.”
Extended my hand. “Thanks for inviting me to the White House.”
Where it all started: Paula’s glance could have precipitated another ice age. Her cool hand barely touched mine. “Not one
word, remember.”
I opened the door and reeled back into the light and heat. Bobby had been out of his mind to marry that thing from another
planet. I couldn’t imagine getting into bed with her. Would she drive straight home and lay down the law? I doubted it: meeting
me was enough trauma for one day. If Paula had any of Tougaw’s sleeping potions handy, tonight she’d swallow the whole bottle.
Tomorrow, after I had left the country, she’d stick it to Bobby.
I drove to Silver Spring and told Cecil he was taking one last field trip. As the sun slipped out of sight, I brought him
to Fausto’s and explained what I expected of him tonight. Strange being in this gigantic, empty house again. Something not
right here now.
Get out of town, Smith. Don’t push your luck.
I laughed out loud. Luck? Mine had disappeared over a waterfall. I went to a button behind Fausto’s dresser and pressed it
twice. The wood paneling shifted, exposing a small closet. My Strad lay inside on top of a safe. Handy little room: I’d use
it later. I fed Cecil and let him make a little noise at the piano as we waited for the phone to ring. At eleven Bobby called:
Paula wasn’t the only Marvel who wanted to hear my version of Chickering’s demise. “Where’s Fausto?” he demanded, finally
sounding more like president than prom date.
“Out of town.”
“I’ll be right over. Make sure we’re alone.” His voice softened. “You all right?”
“Not really.”
I dialed a number and handed the phone to Cecil. Wallace answered. “This is President Marvel,” Cecil said. “Where’s Aurilla?”
In the kitchen. Maybe she was making iguana fritters. In any event, she came right to the phone. “Meet me at Fausto’s in exactly
forty minutes. Come alone.” Hung up. “Think she’ll bite?”
“I would.”
We reviewed our routine then Cecil went upstairs. I turned out the lights in the music room as a three-car parade pulled into
the driveway. As always, Secret Service agents circled the house and took positions along the perimeter of the property. Four
more came inside and swept the place. No one discovered Cecil, but he was hidden upstairs with the safe and I was Bobby’s
girlfriend, not a terrorist. Finally satisfied that the coast was clear, another quartet of agents hustled the president to
the front door. “Good evening, Mrs. Kiss,” he barked, then noticed my face. “Lord! That old mule had some left hook, didn’t
she.”
“Do you mind if we go upstairs?” I said, shuddering in my purple peignoir. “It’s cold out here.”
Bobby didn’t argue. “Where’s your husband?” he asked as we mounted the steps.
“Who knows.” I led him into the bedroom. Two agents stayed behind in the hallway. “I expect him back in a day or two.” In
a box.
Bobby was more impressed by Fausto’s massive bed than his oil paintings. Couldn’t take his eyes off it, perhaps calculating
how large a bacchanalia it could handle. “What’s he going to think of this escapade of yours?” he asked, falling onto the
mattress.
“He’ll laugh. Care for a beer?” I poured a glass and slipped a tiny pill into the bubbles. Forget the jungle swill: this came
straight from Maxine’s medicine chest. We girls called it Ten-Minute Intermission. Never failed. I handed Bobby his drink
and lay next to him on the bed.
As he kissed my bruises, his countenance softened. “Just tell me what happened. Paula’s a basket case.”
She had been sane enough to see me that afternoon—and not mention it to Bobby. “Remember Chickie’s roommate Rhoby? Ever since
that concert at Aurilla’s she’s been calling me. Last night I couldn’t sleep so I went to a few bars with her. Chickie went
nuts when I brought Rhoby home. Thought I was stealing her wife. First she beat the tar out of Rhoby. Then she started in
on me. Fortunately Rhoby stabbed her with her cello pin before she broke my jaw.”
Bobby thought it over. “Did you screw her?”
“Rhoby? What for?”
He swallowed a great slug of beer. “Torment, sugar. Pure and simple.”
“Torment has its limits. Even for me.”
That was the last Bobby heard before plummeting to the pillow. I caught his beer and sprang Cecil from the closet. He dressed
in Bobby’s clothing: the resemblance was shocking. “Ten minutes,” I told him, checking my watch. “Not one second more.”
Cecil nodded and switched to Bobby-speak. “Now for a little fun, sugar.” He opened the bedroom door a crack. “Time out,” I
heard him joke to the agents in the hall.
Fortunately Aurilla was a punctual individual. Cecil and a pair of agents were waiting on the front stoop for her as she rolled
down the driveway. She didn’t get invited into the house. Instead Cecil took her to the porch beneath the bedroom window,
where light was dim but acoustics clear. “Is everything all right, Mr. President?” I heard Aurilla ask. “You and the First
Lady must have had a terrible day.”
“How long have we known each other, Aurilla? Ten years?”
Actually only eight, but she said, “I believe so, sir.”
“I always knew you were an ambitious woman,” Cecil continued. “But I’m afraid I underestimated the depth of your ambition.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Oh, let’s start with your daughter’s recital in a dengue ward in Belize. A couple of mosquitoes in mesh balls. You taking
a short elevator ride with Jojo Bailey … you get my drift?”
“No sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Aurilla spoke with such conviction that for a second I thought I had imagined
everything.
Cecil simply continued. “Then I take you up on your kind offer of a home in the country, little realizing my most private
actions would be videotaped.”